Chapter 5 #2
I shove back through the door and slip out without a sound. No one looks up. No one notices. No one fucking cares.
I head down the back steps, past garbage bins spilling over, sour rot leaking from bags knotted too loose, flies swarming like they own the place. The fence groans when I shove through, splinters biting into my palm as the wood gives way.
My feet carry me without thought, each step pulled by something deeper than choice.
The rooftop.
The one place in this entire fucked-up town that doesn’t smell like despair. Where no one needs me to play a part I never auditioned for.
The fire escape ladder bites into my palms as I climb. My heart pounds with every rung, beating harder as I near the top.
When my fingers curl around the ledge, I haul myself up… then freeze.
He is already there.
Zane.
Sitting where he was yesterday.
His hands are braced behind him, long legs stretched out, hair catching the light in a way that turns him into something half-boy, half-myth. His backpack beside him, unzipped, books spilling out because he clearly couldn’t be bothered to close it.
And just like that, my breath falters, caught in my throat.
No matter how many times I see him, it still knocks the air out of me.
Zane is chaos and calm tangled into one body, a hurricane stitched into skin. Beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be seen, dangerous in a way that makes turning away impossible. And I hate that he is here.
Not because I don’t want him here. Because I fucking do.
And that is what terrifies me most.
He hasn’t said a word.
Neither have I.
But his eyes lock on mine, and the world shifts under me. My chest knots tight, my pulse stutters out of rhythm. I lower myself onto the rooftop, legs folding beneath me, careful with every move.
His fingers tap against his leg, restless.
His hair moves in the breeze, catching light in golden streaks.
I steal a look at him anyway, and fuck me.
Even from this angle he is infuriating. His hair is always tousled, the sandy strands a mess that somehow looks deliberate.
His jaw sharp, clenched in thought. The crooked curve of his nose, proof of some fight that only made him more dangerous.
And then there is his mouth.
That goddamn mouth.
Smirking when he’s being cocky. Sharp when he’s pissed. Quiet now, but no less distracting.
He gets under my skin without trying. My body notices. That magnetic, destructive pull that Cassie warned me about. The one I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try.
I blink hard, forcing the memory back, but Cassie’s words slip in anyway.
“He was with Samantha last night.”
I never asked her for details. I didn’t want them. The jealousy carved itself in anyway, branding me with marks I can’t scrub clean, no matter how much I pretend I don’t care.
And now he is here.
A poem ruined before it was finished, built from broken shit no one could fix. He is a hymn and a curse in the same breath, beauty twisted into chaos. And I am the idiot sitting too close, letting it burn through me.
Zane doesn’t move when I sit.
The air shifts around him, in a way that makes it impossible not to notice every detail.
His profile cuts sharp against the sunlight, the kind of sight that reduces the sky to nothing more than a backdrop.
His lashes throw shadows I shouldn’t be caught staring at.
His mouth stays still, curved in that way that makes it seem he is keeping secrets no one else is allowed to hear.
I tell myself not to stare, but my body betrays me.
My eyes drag down to his hands, knuckles split, bruises blooming across skin that should scream violence but doesn’t. Even battered, they remain steady. Gentle enough to pull someone in, gentle enough to make her believe she mattered.
Something sharp turns low in my stomach at the thought.
Samantha.
The name slices through me before I can stop it.
Now here he is, every inch of him reminding me that he could have touched her less than twenty-four hours ago. Those bruised hands, that mouth on her. His body pressed against hers in the way mine has only ever dared to imagine.
The thought is poison, and yet I drink it down anyway.
Because no matter how many girls fall into his lap, I’m the one sitting here, heart unraveling just from watching him breathe.
God, I’m so fucking stupid.
He shifts, leaning back on one elbow, turning slightly so the last light catches the line of his jaw. His lashes are too long, unfair on a boy who doesn’t deserve anything soft. His eyes are storm clouds when they flick toward me. Dangerous. Pulling.
He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, slow enough to wreck me.
My breath stumbles, chest flaring hot, heat coiling where I don’t want it. I drive my nails into my palms, pressing until the sting cuts through. Pain is the only anchor I have, because if I let go for even a second, I will do something reckless.
Then his voice sounds through the silence.
“I didn’t realize you hung around rooftops now.”
Cocky. Casual.
As if the air belongs to him and I am just trespassing in it.
I shrug and turn my head, forcing my eyes to stay on the horizon.
“I didn’t think you would be here, that’s all.”
“Guess we’re both full of surprises,” he says with that shit eating grin
He always does this.
Always manages to make it sound as if he knows more than he ever says, two steps ahead while I am still struggling to catch my breath.
I risk another glance, telling myself it is quick enough not to count.
It isn’t.
I fail before I even try.
His eyes are already on me.
“What?” I snap, heat clawing up my neck.
“Nothing.” He draws it out. “Just wondering what it’s like to be up here with me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He leans back, head tilting, eyes narrowing with that lazy calm that drives me insane. “C’mon, Sky, you were practically staring.”
“Was not.”
“You were.” His smirk widens, smug and unshakable. “But it’s fine. I get it. I’m hot.”
The arrogance sparks through me, sharp and unignorable. “Congratulations. Want me to get you a medal, or should I buy you a bigger mirror?”
His laugh rolls out low and satisfied, the sound of someone who knows exactly where to pull the strings.
He is having the time of his fucking life watching me come apart.
The memory of Samantha slams into me, souring the heat in my chest until it curdles. Jealousy, the kind I refuse to admit to, but it rises anyway.
“So…” I mutter, tugging at a loose thread on my sleeve, refusing to meet his eyes. “You and Samantha. That’s a thing now?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
His mouth curves at the corner, almost cruel, before a slow laugh drips out.
“That why you’re really up here?”
“No.” The word rips out too quick, too defensive.
He arches a brow, smirk sharpening, the swagger rolling off him in waves.
“You jealous, Sweetheart?”
I bite back before I can stop myself.
“The day I get jealous over you is the day I throw every shred of self-respect I’ve got straight in the gutter.”
“Sure you’re not.” His voice dips low, certain he has already won.
I turn toward him fully, anger burning hotter than I can contain. “She’s not your type.”
The regret is instant.
I don’t hand people pieces of me or let anyone crawl under my skin. But Zane… he doesn’t even have to fucking try.
He tilts his head, eyes dragging over me slowly, every second stretched just to make me squirm.
“Then what is my type, Sky?”
“Someone who doesn’t know better,” I snap.
“So that makes you what? Smarter than the rest of them?”
“Smarter. Meaner. Harder to impress.” My chin lifts, daring him to argue.
He leans closer, bad boy swagger dripping from every word. “Harder to impress? Sweetheart, you’ve been staring at me for five minutes straight.”
“Only because somebody has to keep track of all the bullshit coming out of your mouth.”
His chuckle rumbles. “Careful. Keep talking and I might start thinking you actually enjoy this.”
“Keep dreaming,” I bite out, though the heat forming in my chest betrays me.
And he knows it. He always fucking knows it.
“Sharp words, Sky. Makes me wonder how your mouth would feel doing something else.”
“Try that line on someone desperate enough to fall for it.” I turn my head away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my face.
I fix my eyes on the birds cutting through the sky, wings sharp against the fading light. Still, his stare burns into me.
The silence stretches, and then he moves, slowly.
His hand lifts, fingers brushing along my jaw, light and careful, too gentle for who he is.
My body jolts at the contact, and before I can stop myself, I turn my head toward him, nerves sparking, but I don’t push him away. I can’t.
And when I don’t, his mouth crashes against mine.
It isn’t soft or careful.
It is wildfire pressed to my mouth, raw heat flooding straight into my chest, tearing through every wall I thought would keep me safe. His lips are hungry, edged in danger, the kind that carries warning and promise in the same breath.
I shove at his chest, my hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, meaning to break the moment, meaning to stop it.
But my body betrays me.
Instead of pushing, I clutch tighter, caught in the pull I swore I would never allow. My heart hammers so hard it aches, each beat ricocheting through me until there is nothing else.
The world disappears.
The street below.
The breeze cutting over the rooftop.
Even my own thoughts. All of it drowned under the rush of him, the weight of his mouth, the way this kiss hits less as a choice and more as something inevitable.
His hand cups my jaw, firm enough to tilt my face exactly where he wants it. The other tangles in my hair, grip tight, dragging me closer until there is nothing left but heat and hunger.
It is possession masked in tenderness, and I am drowning under the weight of it.
I should remember that this is Zane, the boy who ruins anything stupid enough to fall into his orbit. But my body doesn’t give a fuck about logic. My chest presses into his, my mouth parts against his, my lungs refusing to work unless it is through him.
His teeth catch my bottom lip and I gasp, the sound swallowed by him.
“Zane,” I whisper against his mouth, breathless, shaking. The word slips out before I can swallow it back.
He pulls back, just barely, his forehead pressing to mine. His breath is rough, uneven, proof that I am not the only one caught in this storm.
His eyes stay closed, lashes brushing against his skin, his hand still cradling my face as if I might vanish if he lets go too soon.
“You want to tell me you didn’t feel that?” He says, opening his eyes, every edge of him still cocky but cracked underneath.
I can’t answer.
My throat closes up.
My chest is a war zone, torn between the need to deny it and the truth that already blazes in every nerve. I can’t even fucking breathe.
He searches my face, and for a second I think he might kiss me again, might finish what he started. But he lets go. His hand slips from my hair. The other drops from my jaw.
He leans back, runs a hand through his messy curls, and that fucking smirk slides back into place, smug as hell.
“Didn’t think so,” he says.
And then he is on his feet.
He yanks his backpack up, slinging it over his shoulder with careless ease, every movement casual enough to gut me. As if the kiss never happened. That he hadn’t torn through me and left the pieces scattered.
He heads for the ladder, each step clanging against the metal, ringing louder than my own pulse, until the sound fades and he is gone. Swallowed whole by the shadows below.
I sit there, frozen, lips still tingling, pulse thrashing so hard it rattles through my ribs.
My head is nothing but static, my chest cracked wide open, because that kiss wasn’t some passing thing.
It was a brand seared into me, burned too deep to ever scrub clean.
My fingers lift to my mouth, trembling.
My first kiss, stolen by the one boy I swore I’d never let get close.
And fuck my traitorous, desperate body? It wanted it more than it has ever wanted air.